Trouble's in the Job Description
by I am The Lev
Summary: Set after Medusa. While Hank tries to save Boris' life, he tries not to think about the fact that his little brother's is resting on the shoulders of some lady he doesn't even know. It's not a particularly comforting thought.
1. Chapter 1

"Who are you?" Hank was trying to be patient, but he'd more or less used up the brunt of his patience trying to deal with Boris' most recent display of John Locke-esque, "Don't tell me what I can't do!" self-medication. If Evan were there, he'd have made some comment on "patience with patients," and that bit of wordplay would've sent Hank over the edge. Or it would've been the exact thing that Hank needed to relieve his frustrations. Hank wasn't sure how that would've gone down because his brother had been missing since he'd run off to trade Hank's cell phone for a box of illicit cigars.

So when the brunette had stepped onto the balcony without knocking, he'd gotten a little snippy. Never mind the fact that the balcony wasn't really his private office, even though he'd been utilizing it as such, and never mind the fact that the brunette couldn't possibly know what Hank's morning had been like and had next to nothing to do with the problems that were mounting around the Hampton's most lovable concierge doctor. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Hank was at the end of his rope. Hell, he was only human, after all. To her merit, the brunette didn't look upset. In fact, she answered his question as casually as if he'd asked her what day it was.

"I'm Freddie Koenig," she said by way of introduction. "I work for Boris." Hank raised a hand to stop her. A couple of weeks ago, he might have questioned her traditionally masculine name, but his time in the Hamptons had showed him stranger things, and he wasn't exactly in the mood for small talk. The last thing he needed was some lady in business-casual giving him a list of requests from Boris. He was mad enough at the stubborn German as it was. Freddie seemed to get the hint and flashed a mild grin.

"It's nothing like that, Doctor Lawson. Boris knew the risks of his decision. He had a standing order. If the procedure were to prove…" here, she paused, trying to come up with a tactful word for "insanely dangerous and/or life-threatening." After all, Boris was still her boss whether he was in a coma or not. Hank picked up on her apprehension and helped her along.

"If the procedure turned out to be exactly what I warned him it might be," he supplied, and Freddie nodded in agreement.

"Should the procedure turn out that way, as it very well has, I'm under clear orders to furnish you with anything and everything you might need. Medically speaking, the hospital staff should be able to help you, but Boris did say that you sometimes require more unconventional equipment. And, please tell me if I'm overstepping any bounds, it's come to my attention that you've been unable to locate your brother." If her tone was any indication, she had a clear opinion of how her skills were better spent.

"I'd feel a lot better if I knew where Evan was," Hank admitted, shifting his glance from the floor to meet her eyes. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like you to find him."

"I'm sure it'll be a sufficient amount of trouble, Doctor Lawson, but that's alright. Trouble is my job," she replied with a shrug, turning on heel and leaving the room. Hank sighed to himself, taking advantage of her absence to collect himself. He'd been right. Boris was a Bond villain; he even had his very own Helga Brandt to prove it. Hank shook his head. Evan was clearly rubbing off on him.

___—_^v_—_Royal-Pains_—__^v—_

Freddie shut the door behind her and gave pause. She adjusted her crisp, white blouse and smoothed the fabric of her black, pencil skirt before taking a deep breath and continuing on her way. Working for Boris required professionalism, confidence, and occasionally a willingness to circumvent the law. Luckily for Freddie Koenig, she excelled in all three, and it probably didn't hurt that her family had been working for Boris' for generations. She was the latest in a long line of "go-to guys," and, though relatively new to the job, she was taking her current assignment very seriously. As she passed the room where they were keeping Boris, she stopped again, this time out of surprise more than anything.

She'd known that Boris was sick, but she was rather unaccustomed to seeing him exhibit symptoms. It was a curious thing, a man so powerful and secure, lying prone on a bed, surrounded by doctors. Dieter, who'd been in Boris' service ever since Freddie could remember, caught sight of her standing in the hall and quietly exited the room. She barely registered that he was talking to her, but his hand on her shoulder drew her from her thoughts.

"Was hat der doktor gesagt, Farica?" he asked again. _What did the doctor say, Farica?_ Freddie wrinkled her nose at the sound of her given name, but pushed her displeasure to the back of her mind.

"Er will mich zu seinem bruder zu finden," she replied in a low voice, as if she were trying not to wake Boris, despite the fact that the door was closed, and he was in a coma, not taking a nap. _He wants me to find his brother._ She could tell that Dieter disapproved of this turn of events, and she gave a half-hearted shrug.

"Boris könnte sterben, und sie wollen auf die suche nach der idiot bruder?" he asked her incredulously. _Boris could die, and you want to look for the idiot brother?_ It was textbook Dieter to value his boss' life above anyone else's. Freddie raised an eyebrow.

"Wie lange glauben sie Boris wird leben wenn der doktor ist abgelenkt?" she asked frankly. _How long do you think Boris will live when the doctor is distracted?_ This seemed to end the discussion, and Dieter ducked back into Boris' room. Freddie pushed forward, squinting as she stepped into the Cuban sun. Dieter didn't trust her judgment, which she supposed was only natural. Trust was something that had to be earned, and in Boris' circle this was no small task. Even so, she could care less what Dieter thought of her. Her primary concern was to make sure that Hank Lawson had whatever he needed, and right now he needed to know that his little brother wasn't face-down in a ditch somewhere. If she wanted to help Boris, she would have to find Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed. Something told her that this task would be easier said than done.

_—^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed, was mildly panicked. And by "mildly panicked," he really meant "out of his mind with horrible, crippling worry." But there was no way he was going to let the kidnappers see that. As far as they were concerned, he was fine. He was super cool. He was Baretta. He was Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs. Wait, no, Tim Roth died in Reservoir Dogs. Not Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs. Not anyone in Reservoir Dogs, come to think of it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to not hyperventilate. On the bright side, the two guys seemed relatively nice. For kidnappers, anyway. Sure, they'd stuffed him in the back of a car right out of a 1970s cop show, but they hadn't beaten him up in the process, and they weren't threatening him. Well, maybe they were. His Spanish was a bit rusty, if not non-existent.

He tried to think of anything he might have done to set this chain of events into motion. After a few seconds, he decided that there were too many things that could've lead to his free ride through Cuba. Maybe Mindy was a Canadian spy, and Evan had been pulled into some international spy stuff as collateral. Maybe these guys worked for Boris, and he'd sent them to retrieve Evan when he hadn't shown up for the flight. Maybe he was being recruited as a model on the count of his good looks and easy personality. The possibilities flew through his head, growing increasingly ludicrous as his anxiety rose like the tides.

"Oh my God!" he blurted out. One of his captors looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, but he seemed more annoyed than curious. Evan didn't notice and continued having a panic-driven epiphany. "Are you taking me hostage because I'm American? Is this one of those things where you'll send my brother a message for ransom, and then he'll ask for a proof of life, like in that movie, Proof of Life? Please, don't tell me that Meg Ryan is going to show up."

He was fully aware that he was babbling now, but he just couldn't help himself. The kidnapper in the passenger's seat figured that was okay. Personally, he couldn't help himself when he pulled his gun out and knocked the talkative accountant over the head with it. Evan slumped to the side, alertness fading, wondering if this newest injury would join forces with his previous one and become some horrific medical disaster. He also wondered if Hank had noticed his prolonged absence. He took in the silence that had filled the car since his painfully slow descent into unconsciousness. Yeah, Hank definitely knew Evan wasn't there.

_—^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Author's notes: Terribly sorry about the short introduction chapter. This is my first Royal Pains fanfiction, and my first story in a long while. Needless to say, I'm a bit rusty. On that note, I apologize for writing with what I can only describe as the mannerisms of a squirrel on speed. Future chapters should have more substance. Should, anyway.

I am certainly not a doctor, and I will tell you up front that 99% of my medical posturing will be 100% fabrication. 60% of the time, it works every time. I'll try my best to depict medical issues, but mostly I'll default to incredibly vague symptoms and treatments thereof.

German Stuff: Farica is a German name and the feminine version of Frederick, which is why Boris' employee goes by "Freddie." She's a totally original character, and you'll find out more about her as the story progresses.

As for the German language, I do study German, but I'm teaching myself with a pocket dictionary and a Berlitz book, so I wouldn't be surprised if my German is the equivalent of Evan's Italian. I apologize to any people that actually speak German.

Can't really think of anything else to say at this point, so I hoped you enjoyed! Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

_Quick introductory blah blah: HUGE thanks and hugs and kisses to everyone that reviewed, favorited, alerted, and/or otherwise read the first chapter! You're all gorgeous. Seriously. Reviews keep the plot bunnies from attacking me with pointy objects._

_Now, I realize that the show went in an entirely different direction from where I originally thought, but I guess that's what happens when someone doesn't have enough patience to wait and map out a story proper-like. Hope yous guys don't mind a bit of AU-trying-desperately-to-blend-in-with-the-actual-plotline tomfoolery!_

_Anyway: Who's ready for some flashback shenanigans? I hope the answer to that is "yous guys," cause it's about to go down. So without further ado, take us away, angiogram scene transition indicator._

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Hank didn't like scrambling. Scrambling implied that he was rushed, and he was far more likely to make a mistake if he was rushed. But Boris' condition had left him with little choice. It was either scramble or let Boris die, and the latter was definitely the less palatable option.

"He's stable, for now," he announced, removing his gloves and tossing them. Then, because he'd had such a trying morning and his filter had all but dissipated, he added dryly, "At least he's out of the coma now." It wasn't very comforting because they weren't sure what had caused the coma in the first place, and Hank didn't even like to contemplate the kind of pain that would force someone to wake up from one. He ran his hands through his brown curls and heaved a sigh.

To further add to his worries, he hadn't heard from his brother, or the woman currently tasked with locating his brother. People like to say that no news is good news, but as far as Hank was concerned, no news just meant no progress, and he was no closer to having his brother back. He caught Dieter sneaking glances at him and crossed the room.

"Can I ask you a question?" he began, and it was abundantly clear from his tone that he was going to ask questions whether Dieter consented to being asked or not. Dieter was aware of this, and he nodded, indicating that Hank could go ahead. Hank, now given, free reign to interrogate Boris' right-hand man, or butler, or whatever it was that Dieter actually was, paused. He wasn't entirely sure where to start.

"Do you think that Freddie can actually find my brother? I mean, just who is she anyway?" Hank was having trouble accepting that this stranger was more or less in charge of Evan's well-being. Dieter considered the question. He could answer the first part with no problem, but the second part was a bit tricky. The manservant decided to stick with Boris' "vague is best" policy.

"Farica is good at her job. She'll find your brother," he said flatly. Hank didn't look satisfied with that answer, an opinion that he confirmed with his follow-up question.

"What is that supposed to mean? What's her job?" He wasn't exactly angry, but it was becoming increasingly clear that if he didn't get direct answers soon, he would start to get belligerent.

"Doctor Lawson, there are no specific parameters to Farica's job. The simplest answer is that she does what Boris tells her to do, and she does it well, and if you told her to find your brother, than that's what she'll do," Dieter replied.

"Do you trust her?" Hank finally asked in a quiet voice. He was doing his best to remain calm, but his big brother instincts were buzzing around in his head, making the whole "calm" thing more difficult. This was made worse when Dieter hesitated to answer the question.

"She's very loyal," the manservant finally offered in reply. Hank didn't know if that was reassuring or not.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Freddie shoved her foot into her trainer, doing up the laces as she hopped towards the door. She'd stopped by her room in Boris' winter villa to change, a seemingly frivolous but entirely necessary task. She was supposed to be finding the doctor's brother, and she certainly couldn't do that while she was dressed like Secretary Barbie. The locals were less forthcoming with information when the person asking the questions was a foreigner in a suit.

She found that the best way to get information from people was to be as hapless-looking as possible. It was in most people's nature to point a lost person in the right direction, if not to help then to quickly rid themselves of a pesky tourist. She'd take what she could get.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Evan forced an eye open. He didn't have a black eye or anything, and he'd been awake long enough that he was no longer groggy, so opening his eye wasn't made difficult by any physical limitations. The bottom line was that he was terrified of what he would see. He took a deep breath and opened his eye all the way.

The room wasn't terribly imposing. There was a very simple desk jammed in one corner, adorned with a small lamp. A small cot lined one of the walls, and he was tied to a chair in the middle of the floor.

"Well, it's not the Ritz, but it's cozy," he mumbled out loud. He half expected some paramilitary guys with guns to burst into the room, threatening him in Spanish. He allowed himself a small smile when they didn't come.

He was sitting in a small, sparsely decorated room, and he had two gaping wounds in his head, one of which was being held together by a mish mash of a tote bag and Hank's disturbingly good braiding skills. He figured he was allowed to smile. Just a little bit. Either that, or uncontrollable smiling was a symptom of blunt force trauma. He made a note to ask Hank about it, providing that he ever saw his brother again. Just as he was contemplating the implications of that particular thought, the door opened, and a young woman stepped into the room.

She was very pretty, and she was carrying a tea tray, but Evan had seen enough movies to know not to let his guard down. Not that he could really guard himself while strapped in a chair, but he tried not to think of that.

"If this is a ransom thing, I just want to let you know that even though my brother and I run a very successful business, Hank has a very strict, Harrison Ford sort of policy against dealing with terrorists. But in middle school, he did shove Larry Crewson into a locker because he wouldn't quit picking on me. Not that I couldn't have taken care of it myself; I totally could've, but I had a cold that day. It wouldn't have been a fair fight," he blurted out. He was rambling again, but, just like before, he couldn't help it. It was reflexive. The woman set the tray down, and Evan saw that there was a pitcher of water and a towel. The woman dipped the tower into the water and pressed it to Evan's head. He hissed at the stinging pain that this caused, and the woman drew back.

"Sorry. I was trying to clean that wound," she apologized. "My brother got a little overzealous." Evan frowned.

"Overzealous? He pistol-whipped me!" he pointed out, trying not to raise his voice but failing miserably. The woman sighed.

"And I'm sorry about that, but if everything goes according to plan, you'll be back where we found you in no time." She sounded sincere enough, but there was something about her that didn't sit right with Evan.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked. He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know the answer, but he'd read somewhere that knowing was half the battle. And, honestly, how could his situation get any worse?"

"You work for Boris Kuester von Jurgens-Ratenicz, don't you?" she asked. Evan merely nodded; he was first of all impressed that she'd rattled off Boris' name so easily, and secondly he had a pretty clear picture of where this was heading. "When he pays for your release, we're going to pay off some very important people, and we're going to escape."

"That's what this is about? You want to leave Cuba?" Evan asked, only lightly incredulous.

"My uncle is a writer. He publishes a column denouncing the government. They're not exactly going to grant traveling privileges to an enemy of the state," the woman replied.

"No, I guess not," Evan mumbled under his breath, mentally reminding himself that the situation can _always_ get worse.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

The stall vendor took in the sight of the woman in front of him. Her dark hair was long and feathered, doing a Farrah Fawcett down to her lower back. She'd accented her voluminous mane with a headband, and when the vendor took a closer look, he noticed that it was the colors of the German flag. Her fair skin and bright, blue eyes corroborated with this piece of information, and her thick Bavarian accent confirmed the tourist's country of origin.

"I was wondering if you could help me," she chirped cheerfully. The vendor's eyes flitted over her orange tank top and short, black shorts.

"I hope I can," he muttered under his breath. The tourist didn't seem to hear, and she continued smiling at him.

"I was supposed to meet a friend of mine, but I got a little lost," she admitted sheepishly. She opened her wallet and produced a picture of a tall, skinny man with curly, brown hair. "Have you seen him at all?" The stall vendor looked at the picture and quickly averted his gaze.

"Afraid not," he said, a little too quickly. The girl cocked an eyebrow and put the picture away.

"You seem very nervous," she commented innocently. "It's okay. I'm not a police officer." She laughed at the statement, and the vendor couldn't help but join her on the joke.

"No, you don't look like it at all, miss," he agreed. "But I'd be a bit more careful asking questions like that, or people will get the wrong idea. You can get into some trouble, drawing attention to yourself like that." For a moment, the tourist tensed, but her smiled stayed in place and after a few seconds she decided that the vendor hadn't meant anything sinister. His advice was punctuated by his hearty chuckles, and it was clear that he wasn't threatening her well-being.

"Believe me, I know a thing or two about that," the tourist sighed breezily as she turned and walked away.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

_"__Freddie, ich kann nicht leisten, zu bereignigen, nachbem Sie." Boris chided sternly. _Freddie, I cannot afford to clean up after you._ Freddie had the good sense to look properly chastised, looking down at her clasped hands to avoid her boss' gaze. He'd told her to retrieve his patient file from a hospital and erase all physical evidence that he'd ever been there. _

_To be fair, she'd gotten the file, erased the security tapes, and even gotten into the gift shop records to remove the store's copy of the receipt for the stuffed bear that she'd picked up for Boris during his stay. She'd been thorough, but she'd also been caught. Her half-formed plan to escape those in pursuit had involved two counts of grand theft auto and destruction of private property. _

_By some miracle, she'd avoided being identified by any law enforcement and returned to Boris without being followed. "By some miracle," though, really meant that she'd driven a stolen vehicle through the back wall of an old barn to conceal it and made a mad dash into the woods so as not to be seen. When it had gotten dark enough, she'd walked along the country road and hitched a ride back into the city in the back of an old pick-up truck._

"_Sie müssen lernen, werden diskrete. Ansonsten finde ich jemand anderes." _ You must learn to be discreet. Otherwise, I find someone else. _At Boris' words, Freddie looked up, as if she'd just been slapped. After all, her family had been working for Boris' since before either of them had been born. Her parents would never forgive her if she were dismissed. _

_Standing to Boris' right, Dieter gave the girl a once-over. She was trying to quell her inner panic. Unlike her older brother, who'd had her job before taking a position in the BND, she was loud and impulsive and about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but she had potential. Dieter knew it, and he knew that Boris knew it as well. Still, there was nothing like the threat of unemployment to force someone to learn a new skill. Freddie stood and cleared her throat._

"_Es tut mir leid, Boris. Es soll nicht wieder vorkommen. Ich verspreche es." _ I'm sorry, Boris. It will not happen again. I promise._ She set a thick binder on Boris' desk and stepped back, her air of calm belied by the way she fidgeted with the cuff of her jacket. Boris took the large file and flipped through its pages, giving them a perfunctory glance. They were totally spotless and completely in order, unlike Freddie, who looked like she'd spent the day running through the woods only to hitch a ride back to the city in the back of a pick-up truck. She'd gone through quite the ordeal to complete her assignment. An ordeal largely exacerbated by her own actions, yes, but an ordeal nonetheless._

"_Ich hoffe, dass Sie das Versprechen halten, Freddie. Sie können gehen," he muttered. _I hope that you keep that promise, Freddie. You may go._ She tried not to look too surprised or relieved as she quickly exited the room._

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Author's Notes: So there's chapter two. I know that not too much has happened, and there is a reason for that, I promise. That reason is that while I'm pretty decisively making this AU by adding in a character and all, I'm trying to stick to the actual plot as closely as possible. This means some creative rewrites on my part, so there isn't much action to be had here. Next time, most likely.

I'm also a huge fan of audience participation, so I appreciate feedback. What would yous guys like to see? Who do you want to know about, and what do you want to know about them, etc etc etc. While I have a big picture sort of plan, I'll try to work in a few suggestions here and there.

So, please review! Hope you enjoyed!

Peace, Love, and HankMed,

Natasha


	3. Chapter 3

"You don't have to do this," Evan said before he realized the words were out of his mouth. The woman looked away from him, but not before he caught the look in her eyes. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn't quite place it. He pushed the thought aside, worrying that sympathy would deconstruct the grumpy mood that his head injuries and mounting hunger had worked so hard on. "People leave Cuba all the time, and they don't have to kidnap people to do it." Or maybe they did. Evan wasn't really an expert on Cuban hostage statistics relative to leveraging emigration opportunities. He made a note to hit up Wikipedia later.

"It's dangerous," the woman shrugged. The motion made it clear that she'd considered the option numerous times. "There are coyotes that are willing to smuggle us out, but it's not free. We don't have enough money to guarantee our safe passage, and the authorities could discover my uncle at any time." Evan hated to admit it, but the woman made a valid argument. He understood a thing or two about looking after family. Hank had always gone to incredible lengths to look after Evan, especially after their mother had died. Evan supposed he couldn't fault the woman for trying to do the same for her uncle. He frowned. How long did it take for Stockholm Syndrome to set in?

The woman got up to leave, perhaps deciding that she'd said too much, but she paused in the doorway, looking over her shoulder.

"We'll bring you some food in a little while," she muttered under her breath. "We're not monsters; we just want to protect our family." Evan nodded. He got it. He really did.

"What's your name?" he asked. The woman looked conflicted for a moment, as if wondering if it would be safe or not to tell him. Evan picked up on this and mustered a small smile. "I've already seen your face. A name isn't going to hurt." The woman almost laughed.

"It's Elena," she finally whispered, walking out and shutting the door behind her.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Mindy was sitting outside of a small cafe, relaxing in the shade of the awning as she sipped at her coffee. She had a lot on her mind, like the weather, the scuba diving she'd do later, and, more prominently than the preceding thoughts, the man she'd done last night. Evan was a nice guy, and she didn't often meet nice guys that didn't turn out to be jerks later on.

It was just her luck that she'd meet someone so amazing while she was in a totally different country. The conditions did not lend themselves to a second meeting, and she doubted that she'd ever see him again. It was a shame, too. Evan was genuinely amazing. He was honest and funny and….

Mindy heaved a weary sigh and looked up from her coffee. And that's when she noticed the brunette sitting across from her. Mindy jumped and stifled a yell of surprise. The brunette peeked over the top of her sunglasses and smiled genially.

"Sorry, It was not my intention to startle you," she apologized, extending a hand. "My name is Freddie Koenig, and I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Evan Lawson." Given the circumstances, Freddie didn't take it personally when Mindy didn't shake her hand. Instead, the blonde was giving her a level stare, not bothering to hide her suspicion.

"How do you know that I know Evan?" she asked cautiously.

"It says 'HankMed' on your shirt," Freddie said matter-of-factly, pointing at the neat, white lettering on the lime green shirt that Mindy had "borrowed" from Evan. Mindy looked down, clearly embarrassed by her oversight. Her embarrassment quickly turned into dread as she returned her focus to the woman across from her.

"You're not his girlfriend of wife or something, are you? 'Cause he said he was single, I swear!" Mindy blurted out defensively. She braced herself for whatever the German had to say. So much for meeting a nice guy. Instead, Freddie suppressed a laugh and shook her head, her waves of dark hair bouncing with the motion.

"No, I don't have any sort of romantic relationship with Mister Lawson. I assure you; my interest is purely professional," she promised, removing her sunglasses and setting them on the table.

"You're coworkers?" Mindy asked.

"If you like," Freddie nodded. When she thought about it, it was probably the best way to explain her connection in all of this. Mindy accepted this, but the worry didn't leave her features.

"Evan's missing, right? Otherwise, you wouldn't have to look for him. Is he in some kind of trouble?" she asked, clearly concerned. Freddie marveled at the Canadian's ability to concoct the worst case scenario.

"That remains to be seen," she answered vaguely. Realizing that this response was far from ideal, she quickly tacked on, "I'm sure he's just making one last round of the city before he has to leave." Mindy did not look convinced, and even though the little voice in the back of her head was sternly reminded Freddie that her current assignment was "need-to-know," she offered a small grin.

"If he's missing, I will find him. It's part of my job. Now, can you remember any place that he might've mentioned to you? Any place that he might've wanted to revisit before he left?" Mindy closed her eyes, mentally replaying the night before.

"He was hanging out at the hospital with us, actually. His brother was helping my friend with a medical emergency," she spoke out loud for Freddie's benefit. "I felt horrible. They were having a really good time at a bar, and I just barged in there and demanded help." Freddie sat forward.

"What was the name of the bar?" she prompted, her voice level. Mindy furrowed her brow. It had all happened so fast; the night before seemed like a blur. But after a moment, a name surfaced in the back of her mind.

"La Reina y El Mar!" she exclaimed. She opened her eyes. Freddie was already gone.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Hank pored over Boris' charts, eyebrows knitted in concentration. There had to be something he could do. He'd treated for everything he could think of, but Boris still wasn't stabilizing. Not for the first time that day, Hank cursed under his breath, pulling his hand down his face. It was hard enough to try and counteract an experimental treatment, never mind an experimental treatment for an as-of-yet unnamed disease.

He had to give it to Doctor Casseras, though. Her research was thorough and well founded. She hadn't rushed the groundwork, and she was highly determined. These were all fantastic qualities. It was her emotional attachment to Boris that Hank wasn't sure about. On the one hand, it was a very strong motivator, and Marisa would never purposefully endanger Boris' life, but at the same time, it had clouded her judgment.

He made his way back to Boris' room to find that Doctor Casseras was already there. She stood at the foot of the hospital bed, a pensive look on her face. Hank cleared his throat to make his presence known. Doctor Casseras turned to face him.

"He's not stabilizing," she said more than asked. Hank shook his head. No use skirting around the issue. He could tell that she was blaming herself, but he could also tell that she was thinking through every possibility, trying to find a solution. A nurse poked her head in the door, holding out a cordless phone. Marisa accepted it, sparing another look at Boris before holding it up to her ear.

"Doctor Casseras," she said in lieu of a hello. Hank could make out the voice on the other end enough to tell that it was a woman, and she was excited. Marisa listened for a moment before frowning. "Baje la velocidad. Comience de nuevo." _Slow down. Start again._ Evidently, whoever was on the other end didn't hear Doctor Casseras, because the Cuban doctor repeated herself several times.

She was telling the other person to start again for perhaps the fifth time when the light bulb went on in Hank's head.

"That's it! That's what Boris needs!" he announced. "He needs to start over! Like a reboot!" At this revelation, Marisa let the hand holding the phone drop to her side. Hank had her full attention.

—_^v—Royal-Pains—^v—_

Author's notes: Yeah, I know. It was Carmen and her crew that "kidnapped" Evan. But that particular factoid wasn't really panning out for me, so I took elements of the back-story and fabricated some original character. Blah blah blah. BASICALLY, it was a way for me to use the bits of the original plot that would fit while at the same time giving me the liberty of a character that doesn't have to meet any expectations.

I _did_ try to keep the medical bits intact, barring the part in my story where Boris was temporarily comatose. But for the most part, I kept my nose out and let the way-better-at-medical-jargon Royal Pains writers take the helm. Otherwise, that would've played out like, "Boris done got the ailment, so Hank fixed it real doctor-like with like a stethoscope or something. It wasn't Lupus. The end."

As for the big action, we're heading there, I promise.

Hope you enjoyed! Please review!

Peace, Love, and HankMed,

Natasha


End file.
